I would like to tell you what is wrong. I'd like to say my part.
I want to tell you why I cry; I'd like for you to know.
I wish I could spill it all, in one sobbing episode of grief.
I'd only want for you to listen, to feel. To weep.
It's hard to imprison such words
It's tempting to tell the world.
But now it seems a message in a bottle is really all my heart can afford.

I needn't tell you of how it feels to go through this
I know you're all too familiar with it
I realize you're always here for me, I see how much you're worth.
I understand I could use a friend to cry upon their shoulder
and here I stand, pushing you and others away from me
if not completely, just about my pain.

I want to talk about it, I want to yell, and stamp my feet, and throw a fit.
I can't seem to say a word of it without becoming a mess of choking tears
I know I need help, but it's all been said before.
Do this, my dear. Don't think about it. Do that. Trust me, you'll feel better.
And of course I do, for a day, if that. But the emptiness returns, and the sorrow fills my thoughts
my days
my nights
my dreams.

And yet it is the last thing I will voice, I shall not mention it.
When prompted, I will give cryptic responses, and quickly go on tangent.
I'll avert my eyes, I'll fidget with everything.
I'll belittle it, I'll treat it hyperbolically as nothing.
I know how contradicting this is. My current state is oxymoronic.
I ask very little of you, please understand.
I ask that you bear with me, for just a while longer.
I believe I can make it through this, and hope you're there once I do.
I ask that you pry as little as you can, for I'll regret saying anything.

You truly are a good friend. I do know this
Please don't think I don't trust you, for I do
I just cannot involve you in this.
I cannot involve you in this.


Cheers,

Maxine